


So late at night,

by Seaside_Dreaming



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Soft Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25943671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seaside_Dreaming/pseuds/Seaside_Dreaming
Summary: Angel Dust has trouble sleeping. He finds an equally-sleepless Alastor at the hotel bar. A little bit of uncertainty and a mountain of fluff ensues.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 247





	So late at night,

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-established early relationship because this was supposed to be as a short oneshot based on a single-word prompt (Touch). Also devoted to the handful of artworks of Alastor with his face in Angel's fluff. 
> 
> I live for a mutually beneficial platonic relationship between these two for the sake of Angel's healing and Alastor's general comfort.

Midnight in the hotel, and the distant chimes from the bell tower outside stir him awake. With a groan, the resident spider swings his legs over the edge of his bed and rubs at the side of his face groggily. His vision is blurry until the sleep fully leaves them, his hair is a mess, but he can’t be bothered to care. Falling and staying asleep had already been met with plenty of difficulty tonight, and this gives him even less of a reason to care for trivial matters. 

He glances dully toward his vanity, the darkened mirror, the ash trey resting beneath it, and considers whether to light a smoke or not. With a resigned scowl, he deems it unlikely to help, and instead retrieves a night robe from the back of a nearby chair on his way out. The only thing to slow his steps into ones more mindful is the tiny bed beside his dressing table, and the precious minor demon that remains curled and comfortably asleep in it.

So late at night, every sound seems amplified. That one tricky floorboard on the other side of his door creaks as he steps out. The doorknob gives a healthy click as one of his hands shut it behind him. The opposite hand makes a rustling attempt to fix his hair, and his lower set of hands adjusts the tie of his robe, complete with the gentle swish of fabric. Overhead, the soft pattering of rain compels him to amble slowly down the hallway into the hotel foyer. 

It doesn’t rain here often, he muses. The lengthy, uninteresting walk gives him plenty of time to mull over distant, harmless, meaningless things. He thinks of Cherri Bomb and what she might be up to, if she’ll ever consider joining him here. He thinks of Charlie’s boundless energy and kindness, if he’ll ever consider returning her gentle thoughtfulness half as openly as she does. He thinks of Valentino and—

No, no he does not think of Valentino. He must not think of Valentino, not tonight, especially not right now, when the whole of the hotel is asleep. But maybe it’s better this way, he catches himself considering, to think of that sickly grin only when no one can see the way his own shoulders stiffen, how his posture bends under the weight he’s been carrying alone for so long. _Nearly_ alone, he reminds himself, and Cherri’s absence is suddenly all the more apparent.

What had started as a cloud of meaningless thoughts and wonderings has developed into a storm of struggles to quell unpleasant memories and pining, and Angel stops in the threshold of the hallway and foyer. His eyes are downcast, brows knit, mouth in a tense frown at nothing but himself. He would cross his lower set of arms, place his upper set of hands on his hips, and huff frustratedly at himself. Maybe he would even humour the thought of turning heel and returning to his room to light a cigarette anyway, but no, no, not so late at night, every sound is amplified. Even if it’s just the soft hiss of static from a radio someone forgot to turn off before bed, it seems larger than this pathetic afterlife. 

… Radio static? 

He glances up and scans the room with a brow raised suspiciously. At first, there’s nothing to be seen but empty space, empty chairs, dark corners, a depressingly unattended bar. Finally, his gaze settles on the shadowy outline of a familiar figure sitting at one of the barstools. Their back is turned, a glass idly raised at their side, and there’s an oh-so-faint glow of red on the counter from dimly-lit irises. 

“Al?”

The figure twists wordlessly in their seat with a blip of radio nothingness. It’s just enough of a turn to show his face, his ever-present but mild grin, and somehow warm but tired eyes.

Between them, the two are far past the point of crudely shot-down lewd jokes (for what can be shot down if they’re no longer made), of small jolts when rounding corners to be met with eldritch radio hosts (for what is welcome is no longer frightening). By now, they’ve landed in unfamiliar territory together, quietly, only when no one had been looking; one of mutual understanding, of respected boundaries, and maybe even a pinch of longing. Maybe a human would call them an item or pair. But maybe a human would do best to keep their comments to themselves, lest they wish for a missing finger or worse.

“Whatsamatter?” Angel questions as he invites himself to sit at the bar beside him. “You havin’ trouble sleepin’ too?”

At first, he receives nothing but a low, meaningless hum. The indecipherable murmurings of a radio whose dial is not quite on a particular channel have faded, leaving them both in relative silence save for the rain outside. Instead, Alastor turns his gaze away to set his half-empty glass onto the counter before him. He slides it in Angel’s direction, letting go only once it’s in front of the other. 

For demons who can both be mouthy in their own way, words are sometimes not always needed, and an occasion such as now is the best of examples. Angel loses a soft huff-like laugh in understanding and gratefulness, and accepts the offered drink. He doesn’t ask how it was acquired; that’s meaningless talk for an hour this late, a spider who already knows the answer, and a calm atmosphere. _Why_ it was acquired might be a different story. Maybe it’s best not to go that far yet.

“You know, if we’re both gonna be up this late, we might as well do it somewhere more comfortable.” 

As the taller speaks, Alastor watches his movements from the side with an unchanging expression. Angel takes one final and dramatic swig, sets the now-drained glass back onto the counter with a muffled clink, and gives out a satisfied sigh. Their gazes meet in the same moment after, and Alastor inclines his head with a raised brow. By now, he knows better than to assume Angel’s suggestion, let alone intentions, are lewd, and instead waits for him to elaborate.

Sensing the floor is still his, the spider rolls one of his hands to help his words along. “Y’know, like, go back to my room and chill out, ‘cause I doubt you’d wanna do that out here where someone might see us.” 

Alastor does nothing but squint in the slightest, and Angel can’t help but think this blasted Radio Demon is intentionally trying to vex him with his silence. Or maybe, he begins to realise, there’s something he _does_ want, but is reluctant to put it into words. He earns only an increased squint and questioningly wider smile when his own expression briefly loosens with understanding. Surely he’s not just being toyed with?

“Your room, actually,” Angel continues in a different, more encouraging key. “Since mine might be the _opposite_ of comfortable for ya. We could, I dunno, sit and watch the rain together or somethin’.” 

No reaction. “Just lie down? Cuddle? … What do people usually do when they’re goin’ out?”

You’re asking the one with an equal amount of genuine relationship experience? Now, now, Angel. He still gets nothing telling in return, at least if one considers a pointed blip of radio static during a specific suggestion _nothing_.

“You could read, or listen to some music, and I could sit quietly and pretend like I’m not even there?” He offers in a slightly more comically desperate tone. Anything? Anything to get a reaction at all? Is he hot or cold? 

“No,” Alastor finally concedes with a sigh. “I wouldn’t want that. Rather, retiring to my room seems like it might be best.”

As he stands, the spider remains in his seat. His shoulders sagging just in the slightest at his perceived rejection give him away, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“With _your_ company, Angel,” Alastor remedies, flourishing his point by lifting the other’s chin with the tip of his index finger. He smiles a softer smile meant only for this little spider, earns one in return, and offers his arm as any gentleman would.

So late at night, every sound seems amplified. 1am chimes outside. The floorboards creak, the click-clacking of heels that sound like hooves, the swish of long fabric. The sound of a spindly hand moving to hold ever so gently to the crook of a lower arm, instead of remain merely linked with it. Angel glances down at his companion for it, but neither speak until their destination is reached. They pass that tricky floorboard outside the spider’s door, a window that shudders with light rain and a gust of wind, a candle whose flame burns so faintly but so assuredly that its flickering can be heard. 

At a door at the end of the hall that matches none of its brethren, for Alastor is not one to agree to stay elsewhere without his own already-familiar accommodations, the two of them pause. It’s the shorter’s room, it’s his job to open it, and there’s nothing to be gained by seeming hasty. Angel is plenty content to smily fondly, subtly, down at him in the meantime, and wonder what might be on his mind. 

The two step inside, and Angel glances around. It’s hardly the first time he’s been in the famed Radio Demon’s room, but the style in here is undeniably different compared to the rest of the hotel. He’s surrounded by something much more personal with its rich shades of red, intricate patterns, fancy embroideries, delicate filigree, and deep cherrywood antique furniture. A distinct fragrance of some type of perfume wafts in the air, as though it’s clung to the various fabrics within the room throughout the years. A gramophone sits on an end table nearby, playing something old, something familiar and calming, no doubt spurred by magic to continue playing endlessly despite all logic.

If it were anyone else, Angel Dust would expect to be turned around on and pushed into the door the moment it was closed. Put right to work, as always. But no abrupt advances are made, and for the most part, Alastor is content to mind his business. In fact, he has taken a few steps farther into the room than Angel, and rather than put complete distance between them, it has instead coaxed his arm out of its fold and brought their hands down into each other’s. Apart from a brief glance down on Angel’s part, neither acknowledge it for a few comfortable moments. Though Alastor’s gloves prevent him from fully appreciating it, Angel’s fur is soft, and for Angel, Alastor’s hand is warm. It doesn’t need to be more than that, and it doesn’t need words. The gramophone, the window across from them and the rain against it, serve as good enough fillers for the silence.

Eventually, the taller comes to stand side-by-side. “You know,” he finally says, doing his best to be mindful of his volume as to not break the mood, or, for once, be too disruptive. “Ya might be more comfortable if you changed into somethin’ softer. Don’t worry, I can look away if ya really want.”

He isn’t sure at first if Alastor’s quiet, mildly distorted laugh is one of agreement or dismissal, and he feels his heart skip an uncertain beat when the shorter moves away, taking his warm hand with him. A playfully cold _“No peeking”_ is enough to reassure him it isn’t genuine dismissal or worse, and he makes a point to cover his eyes (all eight of them, of course) with both sets of immediately-available arms before turning away. 

It hardly matters, seeing as his companion disappears behind a heavy curtain and closet door anyway, only to reemerge a moment later in less form-fitting, comparatively loose and plain nightwear. Before he bothers to give Angel the go-ahead, he situates himself half beneath the covers of his large bed, remaining sat upright with a book in hand. Though he maintains a meaningless smile, softer though it is just for who’s in the room, the air about him seems the slightest bit dissatisfied with something. Missing something, one might say. Longing. 

Though the spider may wish to arch his brow or make a particular comment in return, he knows better and refrains, opting instead only to smile. Despite himself, there’s a trace of uncertainty on his face. Acting and money-making is one thing—sincere interaction with boundaries, respect, and dare he say, _love,_ is another thing.

“So, uh, d’you want me to just stand here, or do I get to join ya at all?” 

Alastor does what seems to be his favourite thing this evening: evades speaking, opting instead only to pat the space of the bed beside him.

Maybe he’s tired, Angel wonders, as he crawls into his designated spot. Does the Radio Demon even get tired? Surely he doesn’t _always_ sleep upright with his eyes open. Why else would he own a bed? His own salacious tendencies might be happy to provide a joke suggestion or two, but even in the recesses of his mind, he does his best to respect his partner, and doesn’t much entertain the thought further than that.

For the first time tonight, a more tangible amount of awkwardness settles over them both as more time passes. The rain outside and the distant gramophone isn’t enough to dull the silence, and he quickly notes the reason is simply that Alastor is withholding something. His demeanour is so peculiarly out of place, in fact, that Angel is nearly forced to reconsider whether or not anything lewd _never_ crosses his mind. Is he waiting for a suggestion of some kind? A question of _“Are you **sure** you don’t wanna try?”_

The suspense and uncertainty gnaws away at him enough to prompt a turn of his head, a worried questioning of a different sort. “Al, come on. Just say it, wouldja? There’s something you want, I can tell. But I won’t know what it is unless ya tell me, and I ain’t gonna go guessin’ in case I say somethin’ too stupid even for you.”

“You…” 

The response comes quicker than he expects, but Angel just as quickly realises it isn’t a full one, and isn’t likely to be right away. Part of him is surprised it wasn’t accompanied by a snap of a closing book (was he ever really reading it?), or a tense, irritable smile (who knew one could scowl so even when smiling?). Another part of him is more surprised to hear how quiet it is, how mildly distorted it is, like dust caught in a radio. Rather than pressure him on, Angel eases back to lean into the headboard of the bed, and folds both pairs of hands together to give his companion space. Surely Alastor wouldn’t want anyone seeing the extra shade of red on his face, and surely Angel knows just enough about these prim types not to acknowledge it.

“It’s OK, take your time,” he finally offers after a few moments of static-filled mostly-silence. 

Though his intentions were to be encouraging, it earns a sharp retort, a sudden spike in radio interference. “Quiet, you. You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.” 

Angel only shrugs, keeping his smirk to himself. It’s cute, he thinks, and he’d be a fool not to admit that to himself. He does his best not to be obvious about it, but can’t help but simply gaze at him from the side while the otherwise flawless-with-words Radio Demon, for once in his afterlife, struggles to wrangle in more than two at a time. 

“Your… chest,” Alastor manages. 

The spider makes a show of fluffing up the bundle of fur, conveniently exposed above the intersecting lapels of his night robe. “You liiike it?” 

Force of habit, surely, yet it earns him another irritable bark. “Don’t go ruining the mood now!”

While Alastor collects himself again, Angel allows himself to laugh. The shorter takes advantage of the sudden raise in volume and scrambles to get the words out. Rather unrefined, all things considered, but much more preferable than admitting it during another awkward pause. “I thought it would—make a comfortable pillow…?”

“—Huh?” All at once, silence falls over them again, yet it doesn’t last long. The moment his companion’s words catch up to him, Angel grins with both fondness and amusement. “Aw, izzat all? Why didn’tcha say so sooner?” 

For all of Angel’s teasing, for all of his mood-breaking commentary, he has a soft spot for Alastor. More than one, to be sure, and one he can make more readily apparent. He scoots lower into the bed to lie down mostly flat, opens both sets of arms in a welcoming, encouraging manner, and makes an effort to lower his tone into one less playful. It comes out softer, encouraging, more sincere. “A’course it makes a good pillow, ‘specially if it’s for you. C’mere.”

Despite his confidence, despite how he carries himself in all other situations, in this one, Alastor is reduced to a fawn on its first legs. He begins by setting his book (a useless distraction) aside, and like any fawn, wobbles to angle and position himself. He gets only as far as his knees and holding himself up by his palms, before Angel takes it upon himself to gently assist. His upper set of arms guide the side of Alastor’s head into the plush fluff of his chest, while the lower set welcomes him to lay his torso over his own. 

For a while, they stay like this. While Alastor stares straight ahead, processing such a new feeling at his own pace, Angel is content to keep his eyes closed calmly. He’d hum, maybe, and just maybe press his luck by attempting to brush a hand through his hair, but not yet. His partner is still too rigid, too unsure and nervous. Though he, too, is the slightest bit unsure, he’s better at feigning how natural this all is to him. In truth, this closeness and warmth is new to him too, at least in such an innocent, fond context.

Minutes pass. The rain outside comes down harder, taps at the window, determined to be heard. Alastor struggles inwardly with his awkward position and whether it’s worth adjusting or not; laying only half on top of Angel is, at best, sure to be uncomfortable for his back, whether he’s flexible or not. He tries not to think ahead, tries not to dwell on it too much, what he’s about to do, and eventually shifts to bring himself to lie down directly parallel atop him instead.

The change is instant. Both of them seem to relax with a shared exhale; Angel’s of contentedness, Alastor’s of relief for his poor back and own passing embarrassment. The spider doesn’t react negatively, instead only cooing a warm _“There ya go…”_ as though to say this had been the ideal from the start, maybe even with a hint of pride on the shorter’s behalf for making the move independently. He certainly wouldn’t be one to test his boundaries, not after what he himself has been through, and has always been careful not to move too fast or presumptuously. Though the taller may be the more experienced between them in ways, it is Alastor who sets the pace, and there’s rarely an exception.

To accommodate the new position, Angel’s legs naturally part just enough to give Alastor a more comfortable nest. A nest, and nothing more—simply a safe place to rest, no expectations attached for either. He deems now a good time to try his luck, and carefully lifts the appropriate upper arm to rest that hand in his companion’s hair. His lower set of arms, having previously only wrapped loosely around the shorter’s back, shift to cradle him, allowing one to gently rub up and down along his shoulders.

Alastor’s facade wanes. Though his smile remains, it softens, and soon, he finds his eyes have closed. His own arms wrap up around Angel’s sides and back, and he seems fully content to lose himself in the soothing comfort and warmth the combination of this fluff and closeness provides. Years, who knows how many now, he may as well have lost count, have come and gone in Hell, passing him by with a particular form of emptiness etching itself into his blackened heart. 

Something in Angel’s own damaged, bricked-off heart, seems to give way, and he loses a satisfied hum. The two have had their moments together before, surely, but never as closely intimate as this. As surely as it mends the emptiness in their hearts they had never noticed making a home there, it mends their hearts together. Slowly, gently, like hands intertwined, like a hand through the hair of who one loves the most, like rain on a window, the spin of a gramophone. 

So late at night, every sound seems amplified. With his ear pressed against Angel’s chest, he hears his calm breathing, hears the beating of his heart. It begins to fade away when the hand on his head moves to brush through his hair, soothing him into a state nothing short of serenity, moments from sleep. The smile on his face is not one of reflexive, egotistical facades, but one of peace, and such an amount of satisfied fondness nearly emanates its own warmth from within him.

So, so late at night, every emotion is felt more strongly than the last. Words aren’t needed here, Angel decides; this tranquility does the speaking for them, leaving them with a mutual, wholesome affection. He learns this famed Radio Demon does sleep, at least in a more natural sense, learns his stubborn silence suggests yearning, and learns uneasy nights are better spent with those he loves. 

He does not hear the bell tower outside announce 2am as he drifts off, and his last thoughts are on tomorrow night, where he might get the chance to repeat this feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! My first proper fic in fifteen or so years.


End file.
